Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
"Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
Daybreak and a candle-end.

"Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
Daybreak and a candle-end.

Then Said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
"Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.

"Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.
Daybreak and a candle-end.

"A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.
Dayhreak and a candle-end.

"All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.
Daybreak and a candlc-cnd.

"That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
Daybreak and a candlc-end.

Now
Words
Occurred
Reverse
Cambistry

Cacology                                
Removed
Ovation
Wish
Nobles

© 2023 Carol Natasha Diviney

He lived too many floors from street level for his advanced years but Ambrose grew up in a time when one did not complain over loudly in case one’s right to complain be taken away.
The last Social Worker to visit had sported an Aldermaston CND badge on his lapel and an air of indifference that Ambrose took to be a sign that now was not the time to raise the topic of his hip vis-a-vis the six flights of rickety stairs. So he would soldier on and thank heaven that there was always Sunday and Johnny.

Ambrose considered his “friendship” with Johnny the ******, and with a sigh, concluded that their relationship was akin to those between tiny birds who peck morsels from large carnivores.

Johnny was a teenage runaway who, not yet passed puberty and well short of 5ft tall, weighed in at 82lbs .The transaction was simple. On Sunday, he would cook a dinner for them both in exchange Johnny would help Ambrose into the bath and bathe him.

There had been a time when the indignity was real but now he would lay awake listening to the late night sound of Soho drift up to his rooms where red and blue neon light danced on his ceiling and imagine he could feel those young hands run over his cold loose skin. When he closed his eyes he could see the young ******, stripped to the waist, soap and sponge in his hands, at the foot of his bed …he ached for the boy’s sensitive touch. Those magical fingertips, those taut sinews, and hairless torso seemed so wonderfully innocent and pure to Ambrose but he hated the purple and yellow bruises that waxed and waned on the boy’s arms  with each successive visit.

Once he’d watched as Johnny banged at his vein demanding it rise for his spike…but as the first deep red cloud bloodied the fix Ambrose shut his eyes tight and felt the cold air of Northern France on his face…his ears flooded with screams and explosions as his brothers lay around him, their blood seeping into the brown ankle deep mud in long river-like branches.

Johnny didn’t understand why Ambrose cried but thought it must be memories or stuff that old people think about?

Some times, as the rush cascaded through his soul, he found himself crying too but didn’t know why…only that it felt warm and when it stopped he had a feeling for the old geezer that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, which would lead to him hugging the old fool and would only then break down and rage about things long locked away…then Ambrose would stroke the boy’s hair “teens are a bad time for men” he’d say while wishing he too was blessed with failing memory.

Forty-five years later someone said a simple word that flicked a light switch in a tiny garret room in Soho and Johnny got a tiny sliver of his memory back, picked up his pen lest he should ever lose his old friend again.

gerald holtom inspires poetry peace logo 15.08.18

rarely go down finsbury
daddy did not get here on a gravy train
highlighted a plaque above shop stationery
inspires poetry logo of love and no pain.
the first march against nuclear
but some poetry is a fraction
above the shop it will sphere
standing strong is direct action.
all looking rosie
family proud standing
20 to 30 all got cosy
CND is respect handing.
linking in no spam
no one for peace will be appalled
if happens heading to twickenham
as soon as installed.
peace is in this verse
hands palm outstretched before firing wally
not on bike to nurse
but knocked by mad man with trolley.